


wanna be your left-hand man

by TakeAStepOut (Falterbehind)



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: (I know I know no one is surprised by that tag), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Drunken Confessions, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Not the way you think, Praise Kink, Tenderness, for once a fic that isn't just dialogue- I'm as shocked as you are, freddy is still a cop sorry to disappoint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24957583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falterbehind/pseuds/TakeAStepOut
Summary: It was Freddy's first undercover job and he wasin, you know? Right under their noses and none of them even suspected a thing.
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 84





	1. Oh, what a night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emgays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emgays/gifts).



> Thanks for the beta Emmy, you keep my grammar neat, and my concepts large of meat

The leather jacket had been a bad idea, in retrospect. Freddy had thought it was the kind of thing a real cool guy would wear; effortless, suave even. That was how Mr. Orange was supposed to be; real cool, nonchalant about it, of course, but real cool. But now in the warm, stuffy air of the bar he felt more like a kid playing dress up than anything else. There was sweat at his hairline, a flush on his cheeks, and he looked longingly at the ice melting in his otherwise empty glass.

Mr. Pink stood up, chair dragging against the floor and drawing Freddy’s attention away from how it felt like he was going to sweat off his skin. Pink knocked his hand against the sticky tabletop twice and swaggered off through the haze of smoke in the direction of the waitress.

“He’s gonna go hit on that girl, knowing full well at the end of the night he’s not even gonna give her a tip,” Mr. White scoffed, eyes following Pink as he moved across the crowded bar to lean up against the table the waitress was busing. “Goddamn chump.”

Freddy ducked his head to hide the surprised laugh that bubbled up; Mr. Orange, he had decided wasn’t a giggler. A decision made difficult by the fact that Freddy himself  _ was  _ a giggler, and that he had had about two drinks more than he was used to. He pulled idly at his shirt, trying to get a semblance of a breeze on his skin.

He really, really should have known better. Joe had pulled them all back to the bar where Freddy had given an Oscar-winning performance of Holdaway’s Commode Story. He had been hot then, though he’d thought it had just been nerves. But no, the hot press of bodies in the small, poorly ventilated space was obviously the major contributor. Freddy wished he’d worn something a little more casual; something like the printed button-down that White was wearing, or the plain tee that Pink had on. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being overdressed, even as he spun around to watch as the waitress made a disgusted face at Pink and stalked off with her tray. He turned with too much force, the momentum causing him to over-correct and grab the table to keep from falling out of his chair.

White reached out and pulled him back on balance, bracing a hand between Freddy’s shoulder blades. “Geez kid, you alright?” 

“Never better, man,” Freddy said, and smiled the slightly too wide smile only seen on people tip-toeing the line between respectably drunk and totally off their ass. White slapped him on the back twice and smiled back knowingly. 

“I think it’s time you head out. Got a big day tomorrow, and you don’t want to be so hungover you wish you weren’t born,” he said easily, standing to see Freddy to the door.He made a vague gesture at Eddie and Joe with his spare hand, the other shifting from Freddy’s back to his elbow. “Let’s call you a cab.”

Freddy let himself be guided out of his chair, the shift of balance causing him to stumble. If not for White’s grip on his arm he would have toppled to the grimy floor of the bar. He felt himself flush; he needed all the guys to believe the character of Mr. Orange, resident cool guy, but inexplicably he desperately wanted White to think he could handle his own shit.

“Woah, woah,” White said, his other hand finding Freddy’s other elbow to help keep him on his feet. His expression had switched from teasing to slightly concerned. “You’re gonna be okay to get yourself home, Orange?”

“Of course,” Freddy said, shooting for suave, easy,  _ super fucking cool _ , and then immediately stumbled again. White laughed that time, and wrapped an arm around Freddy’s waist to better support him. Freddy could feel the warmth of White’s arm through his jacket, his shirt underneath sticking to sweat dampened skin.

“You don’t have to impress me, kid. Nothing wrong with asking for help if you need it,” White said, shaking his head. There was a look in his eyes, a certain set to his face that Freddy was beginning to learn meant that White had made a decision that wasn’t open to debate. “Come sleep on my couch tonight; we’ve got shit to do tomorrow morning and if you’ve choked to death on your own puke its gonna cause some problems.”

Freddy opened his mouth to argue, then closed it after seeing White narrow his eyes almost imperceptibly. “Alright.”

“Good man.”

They moved through the bar, White maneuvering Freddy around chairs, tables, and clusters of customers, and towards the exit. The cool air outside hit Freddy like a wall, and he let out a sigh.

“Christ, that feels nice,” he muttered, half-aware that he was slurring his words. It wasn’t the perception he wanted White to have of him; some kid who couldn’t handle himself or his liquor, and he made an effort to pull himself together. The contrast of the light breeze as they made their way down the sidewalk and the challenge of dodging between other people out for a night on the town at least half as drunk as Freddy helped, though White’s guiding hand on his elbow was arguably much more helpful.

They found Larry’s car parked in front of a tattoo parlor with flashing neon signs, the bright blue and red reflecting off the sleek lines of the car and illuminating Mr. White’s face as he helped Freddy settle into the passenger seat. The neon danced against his skin, highlighting his jaw and the curve of his brow. Freddy tried not to stare, and didn’t think he was particularly successful. 

The drive itself was quiet; music on the radio turned low and punctuated with laughter from the street, and the occasional bit of small talk where Freddy tried valiantly not to let on just how drunk he was. The ship had decidedly sailed; White’s expression told Freddy he wasn’t fooling anyone. A bright, peppy song came on, one that Freddy remembered hearing on the radio during hot summer road trips as a kid, and he smiled, tapping his hand to the beat and nodding his head. He caught White’s eye and flushed, faltering. 

“Don’t stop on my account,” White said, an easy, amused smile on his face. Freddy felt his ears go pink, and fumbled his cigarettes and lighter from his jacket pocket just to have something to do with his hands. He smoked for the rest of the drive, blowing smoke rings out into the night air, and kept his mouth shut.

White’s apartment was a respectable second floor walk-up, and it was decorated in a way that felt like him- put together and sophisticated, and incredibly tidy. There were well-kept plants growing in pots scattered around the living room, a nice looking record player and a shelf filled with vinyls that Freddy’s fingers itched to flip through. He knew, in the logical part of his brain, that he should have been taking the opportunity to try to ferret out information on White. He was sure there was mail somewhere he could sniff out or some sort of personal information he could find inscribed in a book; it wouldn’t be particularly hard to find. 

It didn’t feel right, though. White was concerned for him and was going so far as to put him up on his couch for the night. It felt like a crummy way to repay a kindness, even if at the end of the caper White would be in police custody because of Freddy. There was a line, surely. He respected the guy, even liked him- in another life where White wasn’t a career criminal and Freddy wasn’t a cop, they would have gotten along like a house on fire, he was sure. 

Though that was all irrelevant considering he currently was in possession of toddler-level motor skills. White would surely hear him if he started digging around in the apartment; Freddy had barely made it up the stairs- digging through a drawer for information was beyond him. Almost as if to prove it to himself, he picked up a knick-knack from the coffee table, his messed up depth perception causing him to almost swipe it to the floor.

“Earth to Mr. Orange, come in, Mr. Orange,” White waved a hand in front of Freddy’s face, pulling his attentions away from his rambling thoughts. The couch, a tan cloth affair, was outfitted with several blankets and a pillow. “Make yourself comfortable, kid.”

Freddy peeled off his jacket, throwing it over the arm of the couch, and sat down. The springs made a sound of protest, but it wasn’t the worst place Freddy had spent the night, and it would more than serve. White crossed in front of him and then disappeared into the kitchen while Freddy got himself settled in. He reappeared with a glass of water in his hand, which he set down on the coffee table, just with in Freddy’s reach.

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, Orange, but make sure you drink that,” White said in a tone that made it clear he expected Freddy to comply. Freddy frowned; it had only been a few days, but the novelty of the code names had already worn off, and he was more than drunk enough to let a complaint about it slip, rolling his head loosely on his neck to look up at White eclipsing the overhead light. 

“I’m tired of this Mr. Orange shit. Just call me Freddy, man.”

White laughed, surprise flashing across his face. “Alright kid; I’ll tell you my name too, but only because I don’t think you’re gonna remember shit in the morning. I’m Larry.”

“Don’t say that; of course I”m gonna remember,” Freddy’s frown deepened, his tone edging on whinging. He propped himself up on his elbows to better meet White- Larry’s eye, to properly impress how serious he was about not forgetting. It was a stupid mistake, a rookie mistake, letting his name out like that. He hadn’t truly meant to wheedle Larry’s name out of him either, though Larry had let it go pretty freely. Now that Freddy had it, he wasn’t going to just let it slip away. He told himself it was solely because it would help make his job of narrowing down the rest of Larry’s personal details that much easier, and not for any other reason.

Larry smiled at him, in an indulgent way almost as if he was entertaining Freddy’s antics because they amused him. “Yeah okay, alright. Drink this water because I’m sure your head is gonna thank me for it later. Goodnight, Freddy.”

“Goodnight, Larry,” Freddy responded as the light clicked off. He could hear Larry’s footsteps, muffled against the carpet, as he made his way down the hallway. There was the sound of a door clicking shut and then the apartment was silent. Freddy rolled onto his side and wiggled around until he found a comfortable position before shutting his eyes and promptly falling into a heavy sleep.

  
  
  
  
  



	2. come a little bit closer, you’re my kind of man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This uh.... this chapter kind of got away from me. Watch out for the new tags etc

"You’re gonna leave here looking like that?” Larry asked, from across his apartment as he watched Freddy shove his feet into his shoes. His eyebrows were raised high, and there was an incredulous look on his face. Freddy had found Larry distracting in the neon glow the night before, but it was nothing compared to seeing him now, comfortable at home in the fresh morning light. He looked, in a word, _good._ Homey. Inviting, even. There was a stray curl of hair falling over his forehead, and he was wearing a palm-tree print shirt that on anyone else Freddy would have poked fun at.

“What’s wrong with how I look?” Freddy cocked his head, just ever so slightly to the left, a smile creeping its way across his face.

“Going out to the job in the same clothes you wore yesterday, it ain’t respectable.”

Freddy laughed, just once; one of those laughs that was more exhale than anything else, and straightened up. “Respectable? What year is it, 1941?” 

“You think I was around in 1941?” Larry quirked an eyebrow and waited a half a beat. Freddy hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to react. Before the moment could stretch on, Larry smiled fondly, suddenly all dimples. “Snot nosed kid.” 

“Old man,” Freddy shot back, bold, because that was what Mr. Orange would do. He smiled, irreverent, because that was what Freddy would do and he could only hold himself back so far. “But if it means  _ that _ much to you…"

“Great; let’s get you some fucking style, kid.”

Style, as it turned out, meant another of Larry’s novelty printed button downs. The shoulders of it were too broad, sloping off of Freddy’s narrow frame and making him look even slighter. It was soft, well worn like maybe it was one of Larry’s favourites that he had owned for years, and smelled faintly of his cologne. Freddy tried not to focus on that, on the intimacy of it. 

“There we go; now that’s class. You’re a professional, you got to dress like one,” Larry said approvingly, and Freddy rolled his eyes, softened the action with a smile.

They took Larry’s car to the jewelry store, sun-baked and sweltering despite the fact it was hardly mid-morning. They pulled up across the street, settling in for a long few hours of watching and waiting. The air hung heavy and hot, growing worse and worse as the time ticked on and they watched a scant number of customers come and go from the store. 

Both of them lit cigarette after cigarette, more to just have something to do than because of the habit, and exchanged the idle chit chat that Joe’s rules allowed. Neither of them mentioned the fact that they had already broken them; the absurdity of playing along when they were already so far gone.

Freddy couldn’t shake the conflicted feeling- he was meant to be observant, watching Larry’s every move. Holdaway had said it himself; down to the smallest detail. However, Freddy knew that the details he was choosing to focus on wouldn’t be ones helpful to the boys back at the station. Freddy was more watching Larry blow smoke out the window, appreciating the cut of his jaw, the way he held his hands, and the shape of his mouth, than trying to ferret out personal information. 

Larry turned and cast a look across the seat, and Freddy pulled his eyes away from Larry’s hands, broad palms and well shaped fingers, and feigned a disinterested stare at the brick-front store. He didn’t even fool himself and he had very little doubt that Larry had caught him out. He found that he didn’t mind; he liked the idea of Larry knowing he was looking. He liked the idea of Larry looking back.

There was a moment where Freddy could feel the weight of his gaze, something akin to appraisal. He didn’t trust himself to meet Larry’s eye, just kept blowing smoke rings and staring out the window of the car. 

“So, kid,” Larry paused and took a drag from his ever-present cigarette. Freddy’s eyes tracked the movement, hand to the cigarette to mouth to the smoke, before focusing back on Larry as a whole. Larry smiled then, sly and dangerous, and Freddy knew he had done it intentionally; a test. He had a feeling that he’d passed with flying colours. “You know the plan?”

“Yeah, I got it pretty well,” he replied, his voice casual, because that was how Larry wanted to play it, like there hadn’t just been a shift in energy. 

“Pretty well?”

“What’s wrong with pretty well, man?” Freddy groused, took a pull and flicked the ash out the window.

“On a job, you don’t want to know the plan ‘pretty well’, you want to know it like it’s been tattooed on the inside of your skull,” it should have sounded like a threat, but it didn’t; firm but it lacked the bite. 

“Shit, alright, I know it,” Freddy said, tone half-affronted while he gestured with his spare hand, a vague waving motion. He slipped back into his persona, because of course he knew; he was cool, sly, taking the job seriously but still easy-going enough about everything.

“You know it?” Larry raised his eyebrows, and leaned back in his seat; everything in his body language and tone made it clear that he was skeptical.

“I know it,” Freddy gestured again, a dismissive flip of his wrist to match his inflection.

“Let’s go over it. Where are you?” Larry asked, and his tone changed. Freddy felt like he was back in school, being asked rapid-fire questions by a teacher who had caught him doodling in the margins.

“I stand outside and guard the door; I don’t let anybody go in, or go out,” Freddy responded in the flat voice of one reciting words verbatim. They went back and forth, Larry prompting with short, focused questions, and Freddy responding in kind with the details of the plan.

“That girl’s ass?”

“It’s sitting right here on my dick,” Freddy delivered in the same voice, not missing a beat. Larry let out a laugh, the sound ringing out loud and his face lighting up, and Freddy ducked his head and grinned.

“Myself and Mr. Pink?”

Freddy hesitated, still thrown off from being pleased with himself for making Larry laugh. “Uh, you two take the manager in the back and make him give you the diamonds. We’re there for those stones, period. Since no display cases are being fucked with, no alarms should go off. We’re out of there in two minutes, not one second longer.”

Larry smiled, satisfied that Freddy knew his shit after all. There was a slight lull in the conversation; a natural breaking point where they could easily go back to small talk and banter, and Freddy paused. He wanted to keep Larry talking, more than twelve words every quarter of an hour like they’d been averaging, wanted to hear the smooth sound of his voice just a little longer. Freddy weighed his options in a fraction of a second; he was meant to be playing, for all his posturing and self confidence, some punk who was new on the scene. Mr. Orange could get away with a stupid question, even if Freddy already knew the meat of the answer he was going to get. 

“What happens if the manager won’t give you the diamonds?” 

Larry glanced over and smiled, and exhaled smoke before launching into an explanation. Freddy listened, rapt, and watched him as he talked through his process. He laughed when Larry joked, eyes never leaving his face for a second. Larry’s voice had a cadence to it, almost musical, that Freddy found enchanting; he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. He could listen to him talk about anything, just to hear his voice.

He didn’t want to think about that too hard, the implications of what that would mean in circumstances like his, so he didn’t. He just listened.

*

It should have felt ridiculous, that his days felt oddly empty. In just about any other state of things he would have killed to have been paid to just hang around his apartment, reading comic books and jerking off to thoughts of a very different set of hands on him. But everything felt like it had been turned upside down and to the left.

He’d had his meeting with Holdaway to pass off new information. Not that there had been very much to share; Freddy had long passed on the details of the job. They had the what, the when, and the where, and Holdaway had pressed him on trying to figure out the  _ who _ . He'd lied through his teeth, saying he hadn’t had time to look through any of the Wisconsin files yet, and no, he hadn’t learned anything new about Mr. White. Holdaway had given him a long look, like he was trying to figure Freddy out, but he hadn’t pushed it.

Freddy hadn’t felt good about the lying, but the idea of giving up Larry’s name had made him feel physically sick. He had a job to do; he knew it. He needed to get his head on straight, do his job, and move on. Easy. Simple. Until he thought of Larry, telling jokes over tacos or raising his eyebrows over something stupid Mr. Brown said. Then it became a hell of a lot more complex.

The longer he sat and stewed, days stretching on without hearing from Joe, or Eddie, or even Holdaway, the worse it became. It should have been easy, a clear path to follow, but somehow the map had gotten all twisted up, and Freddy barely even knew where he was standing anymore, let alone where he was going. A wire, tightly wound. He was afraid of when he would snap.

The shrill ringing of the phone had never been more welcome. Freddy stumbled up from the couch, nearly tripping over a pile of clutter on the floor, and answered it on the fourth ring.

“Hello?” He asked, cautious. He’d been wary of answering with his usual short and sweet  _ Newandyke  _ since the first time that Nice Guy had given him a call and he’d nearly let it slip.

“Freddy,” came Larry’s familiar voice down the line, and Freddy felt himself uncoil, just a bit, the tension in his neck subsiding for the time being.

“Larry. What’s going on; I miss a memo or something?” Freddy leaned against the wall, rested his forehead against the cool plaster. One word shouldn’t have such an affect on him, Jesus. He felt like a teenage girl waiting for an invitation to prom; he needed to pull himself together, fast.

“Nah. You left your jacket last time you were over. Ended up half under the couch, otherwise I would have seen it sooner. You wanna come by and grab it, have a drink?” It was an innocuous enough of a question. Simply friendly. Larry’s tone didn’t suggest anything else, anything other than, but it set off an alarm in Freddy’s head nonetheless. He considered for a half-second, and made his choice.

“Shit, I was wondering where that got off to. I’ll head over in a bit,” Freddy replied, and let his tone reflect back Larry’s own, easy-going and unruffled. His gut flipped a somersault as he remembered the gun tucked into the pocket, police issued, and he hoped to god that Larry hadn’t gone through the pockets.

“See you soon, kid.”

Freddy stood for a moment with the phone in his hand, before hanging up and dialing Holdaway, speaking immediately once the phone had been picked up on the other end.

“I need you to call off the watch tonight,” Freddy said without preamble. Once the words were out of his mouth he paused. He didn’t want to take them back, not that he could anyway. Something about that, the complete lack of regret, stopped him in his tracks. If he brought the surveillance team with him, all the way out to Larry’s, that would be it. They’d be able to track him down in no time, regardless of whatever information Freddy did or did not pass along. 

“What? Freddy, man, what’s going-”

“Look, man. I don’t have time to explain, just trust me on this one, okay? Tell them they got the night off,” Freddy scrubbed a hand through his hair, half in disbelief at himself as he kept talking, his voice clear and calm. “Everything’s fine, I just need them gone for right now.”

“You better explain this to me next time I see you, Freddy,” both the warning and concern in Holdaway’s voice were clear, and he hesitated before continuing, “I’ll make the calls.”

“Thanks,” Freddy set the receiver back down in the cradle, terminating the call, and then stood still for a moment. He had thought before that the line in the sand was becoming blurred, but now it seemed like he’d just redrawn in, standing on the other side. His hands shook, and he balled them into fists, white-knuckle.

The drive to Larry’s was one of the more miserable in his life; he kept thinking he’d just turn around at the next street, find a nice driveway to do a three-point turn, and go back home, where maybe his brain would start to function normally again. But he didn’t; he kept on driving, following the route to that awful bar Joe liked so much, and then following what he could remember from a few nights before. It felt like months since he’d last stepped foot over Larry’s threshold. 

Freddy parked, neat and precise and then stood in the lot and smoked two cigarettes to get his hands to stop shaking. He walked up to Larry’s door and knocked, twice, before he had the chance to high-tail it out.

Larry let him in with a smile and a cold beer in hand that he passed over immediately. Freddy could see his jacket, folded over the arm of the couch, looking oddly out of place with the rest of the decor. With sober eyes, the place suited Larry even more than on first glance, or maybe it was simply that Freddy knew him better.

“Been up to anything?” Larry asked, tipping the mouth of his bottle towards Freddy. That was how it was going to be, it seemed, relegated to small talk. Freddy laughed self-deprecatingly before he answered.

“Nah man, absolutely nothing. Thought about installing a giant hamster wheel just so I’d have something to do. Watched one of those god-awful movies they keep showing at night on the television.”

“Kids these days; you give them a few days of downtime and they absolutely waste it,” Larry smiled, and gestured for Freddy to sit down on the couch. He took the invitation, setting his drink down on the coffee table as Larry joined him, sitting a little closer than perhaps was strictly necessary.

“Suppose you filled yours up gardening or something, old man?” Freddy raised his eyebrows, mouth a shit-eating grin as he sat back against the cushions of the couch, throwing his legs wide. Larry leaned forward to deposit his own bottle on the table, bracing a hand against Freddy’s leg. Even as he sat back up, he left his hand there, resting on Freddy’s thigh, hot even through the denim of his jeans. The two bottles of beer sat suddenly forgotten on the coffee table, condensation dripping down the sides, and all Freddy could think was how he wanted Larry’s hands all over him, strong and steady and sure, taking him apart. That one connection point felt like a tether, a promise. All at once it was not enough.

The divide on the couch between them felt like more than just the space of a few inches. It was the line between truth and lies, between criminal and cop; Freddy had never truly understood star-crossed lovers until that moment. The distance suddenly felt like miles and miles, and he ached. He wished so desperately that they had met under different circumstances; that Larry wasn’t a criminal and that he wasn’t the guy trying to bring him in.

He realized, pulling himself up and out of his spiral, that he had been a little too silent for a little too long- he needed to think of something else, needed to be cool and collected. Mr. Orange would think of something to say, some smartassed quip, or pull some smooth move, all game. Larry swept his thumb in an arc, sending lightning across Freddy’s skin, and that was all the prompting he needed. The space between them became nothing as Freddy twisted and slotted a hand against Larry’s neck, crashing their lips together. It was desperate and inelegant, Larry’s hands coming up to rest on his waist, a steadying force. He rocked on his knees, hovering above Larry and kissing him for all he was worth. It was as if a dam had broken, flowing out. 

“Geez, kid,” Larry chuckled, his hands rubbing slow, comforting circles through the thin material of Freddy’s shirt. “Slow down; I ain’t going anywhere.” 

Freddy took the weight of that straight to the stomach, adding to his ever-growing list of things to feel guilty about, and tried not to let it show in his expression. Instead, he hooked one leg up and over Larry’s, settling himself down on his lap and tucking his face into the juncture where neck met shoulder. Larry’s lips brushed his neck, kissing his way up and along Freddy’s jaw and drawing out a soft sigh. He tipped Freddy’s face up with his hand and kissed him so soft and sweet and gentle that Freddy lost himself in it, melting. 

He could have lived like that for the rest of his life, a world where it was just the two of them. Larry pulled him closer, chest to chest, and suddenly the angle shifted. Their hips slid together, both hard, and Freddy moaned into Larry’s mouth, hand clutching at his shoulder. 

“God,” Larry said, pulling back to nip at the hinge of Freddy’s jaw. “Making out on the couch like a couple of teenagers about to come in their pants, huh?”

“I hope not; I had other plans,” Freddy smiled, sly, and let his eyes wander to the hall that led to Larry’s bedroom. He kissed Larry, lingering, a promise, and then shimmied inelegantly off his lap. 

Larry looked up at him with a smile and a shake of his head before standing. “You got a line for everything?” 

“Come find out,” Freddy said, voice low, and let himself be led down the hall, pausing over the threshold as Larry flicked the lights on. He turned to look at Freddy, still half in the doorway, his lips kissed swollen and a blush high on his cheeks. Larry reached out, cupping Freddy’s cheek, almost as if to check he was still there. 

“Look at you,” Larry said fondly, his eyes soft as he cradled Freddy’s face in his hand. Freddy leaned into it, resting his cheek against the warm palm as Larry’s thumb traced the fullness of his bottom lip, pausing at the corner of his mouth. Freddy caught his finger between his lips and watched Larry’s eyes grow dark as he sucked gently, laving his tongue gently against the pad of his thumb.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Larry’s voice was low, dangerous, even as the hand he held against Freddy’s face remained gentle.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. C’mere, pretty boy,” Larry crowded him against the wall, arms caging Freddy in, and smiled at the sound of his breath catching in his throat. “You like that, being called pretty boy?”

Freddy inhaled sharply, caught off guard, his hands twisting into the fabric of Larry’s shirt. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Larry’s mouth was urgent against Freddy’s, hot and demanding. He could feel the heat of Larry’s body where they were pressed together, a map connecting points of contact from Larry’s thigh wedged between Freddy’s, to his hands pressed to Freddy’s sides, to his tongue in Freddy’s mouth. Larry smiled through the groan pulled from Freddy’s lips, and slipped his fingers through the belt loops of his jeans, pulling him away from the wall and towards the bed.

Freddy pulled blindly at Larry’s belt, getting momentarily side-tracked as Larry caught the hem of Freddy’s shirt and pulled it off over his head. He smiled triumphantly as he managed to pull the belt loose, buckle clinking in his hand. Larry kissed him, mouth trailing hot down his neck as he pushed him gently back and onto the bed. 

“What were your plans?” He asked, breath hot on Freddy’s throat, lips ghosting over his skin. 

“I was thinking,” Freddy gasped, eyes fluttering shut as Larry’s hand dipped beneath the waistband of his jeans. “I was thinking about your hands.”

“My hands, huh?” Larry had already moved on, tugging down Freddy’s pants. He lifted his hips up to help, heard the sound of the jeans landing somewhere in the room as Larry tossed them aside. “Thinking about my hands doing what?”

Freddy didn’t answer immediately, too busy scrabbling at the buttons of Larry’s shirt. He was still entirely too dressed for Freddy’s tastes, even after he’d wrestled the shirt off Larry’s shoulders.

“You gonna tell me or should I guess?” he asked, and Freddy looked up at him, all eyes. “Something like this?” Larry brought his hand up to Freddy’s face and gently pressed his first two fingers to his mouth. He parted his lips readily, watching Larry’s face intently as he ran the tip of his tongue across Larry’s fingertips, before sucking gently, his cheeks hollowing ever so slightly. He closed his eyes and let himself revel in the weight of Larry on his tongue, the rough feeling of calluses of well-worked hands. Larry made a sound from deep in his chest and Freddy smiled, all sharp teeth.

He whined impatiently as Larry withdrew his fingers, and was slightly mollified by the kiss he pressed against the flushed skin of his shoulder. Larry hooked his thumbs in the waistband of Freddy’s boxers, tugging them down and watching as his cock bobbed free, flushed and proud. Once his legs were free, Freddy parted them, an invitation. He let out a surprised little sound as Larry grabbed his thighs, pushing them wider apart and settling down between them.

“Or,” Larry said, voice low, as his fingers still slicked with Freddy’s spit ghosted over his rim. “Something like this?”

Freddy let out a harsh breath, one hand twisting into the sheets, the ability for smart answers had totally left him. “Pretty much exactly that.”

“There’s lube in the bedside drawer,” Larry said with a jerk of his chin and a smile, and waited as Freddy reached over and blindly searched through the contents until his hand connected with the bottle. He tossed it down to Larry, who caught it neatly, and then watched, eyes half-lidded as he poured a generous amount into his palm. Freddy realized, belatedly, that the next time he saw Larry’s hands he was going to think about this moment, and blushed halfway down his chest. 

The lube was cold on his skin, warming quickly under the small, teasing circles Larry traced around his hole. Freddy whined, jostling one of his legs to encourage Larry along. He let out a huff of a laugh and obliged, pressing a finger in and pausing as Freddy hissed out a breath. Slowly, Larry began working him open, his motions methodical as Freddy’s breath hitched in his chest and small sounds clawed their way out his throat.

“Being so good for me,” Larry murmured, brushing his other hand along the sensitive skin of Freddy’s inner thigh, and reveling as Freddy shuddered under his hands, gasping out a sigh. He paused in his ministrations to add more lube and an additional finger, and was rewarded by a breathy moan, Freddy’s hips twitching. The stretch, the feeling of fullness were so overwhelming that for the briefest of moments he closed his eyes. 

“ _ Fuck.” _

Larry sped up his pace, watching as Freddy came undone, his lip caught between his teeth as his breathing rapidly picked up pace. Larry spread his fingers, scissoring them experimentally and watching as Freddy’s mouth fell open, eyes half-rolled back. 

“Larry, god,” he groaned, a string of curse words following in short order as his hips jerked involuntarily. Larry’s spare hand came up, pressing him gently down into the mattress and keeping him still as he crooked his fingers, eliciting another burst of swearing.

“You got a dirty mouth for a pretty boy,” Larry commented, his voice gruff and his eyes on Freddy’s face. 

“Jesus,  _ fuck,”  _ Freddy bit his lip and fell back against the pillows, a whine working it’s way out of his throat. 

“Not Jesus, just me.”

Freddy laughed, the sound trailing off into another moan as Larry rotated his wrist, changing the angle and hitting a completely different spot. He seemed to sense it, something in the way that Freddy whimpered, because he repeated the motion, brushing past the same place again as Freddy gasped, clutching for purchase at the sheets beneath his hands. The world narrowed down to just Larry’s fingers and the heat of his other palm still braced against Freddy’s hip, grounding him as he moaned out half-formed words, sounding positively wrecked. 

“Look at you,” Larry’s voice was appreciative, watching the private show Freddy was putting on just for him. He was quickly devolving into a mess, becoming louder and louder. “Gonna cum for me, just like this.”

Freddy made a half-choked off sound, his hand closing like a vice around the wrist Larry had at his hip. “ _ Larry.” _

It was all the warning he gave before he came, painting his own stomach and chest as Larry continued fucking him through it. Freddy melted back into the pillows and sheets, boneless, his only movements for a moment were the heaving rise and fall of his chest. He opened his eyes to Larry cleaning him up, wiping his skin down with his own shirt, and he laughed. Once Larry had thrown the shirt to the floor Freddy surged forward, reaching for Larry’s face with one hand and the fly of his pants with the other. 

“Jesus,” Larry laughed, leaning into one of Freddy’ hands and catching the other by the wrist, thumb stroking over the bone of his wrist. “You don’t ever rest, do you?”

Freddy grinned wolfishly and kissed Larry, filthy and all tongue. “Nope.”

Larry laughed, eyes crinkling, and let go of his hand. Freddy lost no time scrambling to kneel on Larry’s beige carpeting, palming at Larry as he got himself settled. With nimble hands he unzipped Larry’s fly and tugged at his belt loops to gain better access. 

He mouthed at Larry’s length, feeling the heat of him even through the thin fabric of his underwear. Larry made a sound, in the back of his throat, and wove a hand, one of those beautiful hands, through Freddy’s hair. Freddy hummed appreciatively and then pulled back and dragged Larry’s pants and underwear down over strong thighs. His cock sprung free, flushed red and beautiful. 

Freddy tipped his face up, made eye contact with Larry, and deliberately licked his lips, watching as Larry’s mouth fell silently open. He took Larry’s dick into his mouth, sucking at the head and running his tongue along the underside. The hand in his hair tightened slightly, a ghost of a moan on Larry’s lips. The weight of him on Freddy’s tongue was a sensation that if he let himself, he could get lost in. He pulled off after a moment in favour of licking up the length of him, and felt the muscles jump in Larry’s thigh. 

“Christ,” he groaned, voice gravelly. Freddy flashed a smile and wrapped a hand around him at the base, taking him into his mouth again. Larry let out a string of curses, and Freddy looked up, all eyes, his cheeks hollowed out. 

“ _ Freddy _ ,” Larry breathed, like his name was something holy, like it was a prayer. “God, you’re so good.”

There was a flush high on his cheeks, and Freddy knew he would never get tired of seeing him like this, of being on his knees for Larry like this. He swallowed around his cock, hearing Larry swear, and he could have listened to him all day. 

“I don’t- I’m close,” Larry warned, head thrown back. Freddy took him even further into his mouth, nose brushing against the heated skin of Larry’s stomach. Freddy’s jaw ached beautifully, and he pulled back, working Larry with his hand and mouth. Larry moaned, long and deep, his hand in Freddy’s hair suddenly clenching as his whole body tensed, and then he was cumming, flooding Freddy’s mouth. He swallowed, tasting salt, and Larry looked at Freddy like he was the sun, the hand in his hair coming around to gently cup his cheek as he pulled off. 

Larry pulled Freddy up and into his lap, kissing him soundly, and he felt the most relaxed he had in weeks. 

“So,” Freddy grinned, his arms wrapped around Larry in a tight embrace. “I think I’ll have that beer now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Teapig this is at least half on you, buddy


	3. You're lookin' good,  just like a snake in the grass

Truth be told, Freddy was getting kind of sick of Smokey Pete’s. Joe had called them all out for one last get together before the job, less than 3 days were left till they were due to roll up at the jewelry store, and it was eating Freddy alive. He would have rathered to have been back at his apartment, sweating and pacing, than at a table pinned in by Larry on one side and Mr. Blue on the other. They were all talking about something inane; some movie, from what Freddy could tell.

“I’m telling you, I’ve seen her in something before,” Mr. Brown slurred, pausing to take a sip from his glass, ice cubes rattling around as he set it back down a little too heavily on the table. “One of those cop shows they keep churning out; you know the ones.”

Freddy shifted uncomfortably, picking at the napkin the bartender had set down with his last drink. He knew he was being uncharacteristically quiet; Mr.Orange probably should have been making some cutting remark and pulling the conversation back to something even remotely interesting. Something that wasn’t cops, for god’s sake.

Under the table Larry’s hand found his thigh, a reassuring pressure. He was still watching Mr. Brown and Mr. Pink argue about the film, an amused expression on his face, looking as relaxed as could be. It was like he wasn’t about to go out on a job; though then again it was meant to be easy. An in and out, two minutes not a second more.

Freddy rolled his shoulders and forced himself to stop shredding his condensation-damp napkin into confetti. He leaned back in his seat and let his legs shift a little wider and tried to follow exactly where the conversation had lead to.

“She plays that reporter! Listen to me,” Mr. Pink said, beginning to sound heated, and Freddy tossed a look over to Larry, rolling his eyes. Larry shook his head, squeezed Freddy’s thigh once, and then stood up.

“I need another drink if I’m going to have to keep listening to you two argue.”

Pink opened his mouth to protest, but Joe started to laugh and cut him off by abruptly changing the subject, talking loudly to Eddie about some shipment they were meant to be receiving. 

“Tough luck,” Freddy said with a sharp smile, picking up his almost-empty drink and tipping it at Mr. Pink condescendingly before tossing it back. It was watered down; the ice half melted into the alcohol unpleasantly. His heart was only half in it- the undercurrent of anxiety making his words dull and his hands shake, just slightly, as he set his empty glass down. 

“Starting fights?” Larry dropped back into his seat, setting a fresh rum down in front of Freddy with a nod. “Looked like you could use this.”

“Just making conversation,” Freddy replied, still looking at Mr. Pink for a beat before turning to Larry, picking up the glass and half-draining it in one. “Thanks.”

Larry raised his eyebrows, a look of concern flashing across his face. He leaned in close, his warm breath ghosting over the shell of Freddy’s ear. “Something’s wrong; what is it?"

Freddy shrugged, rolling the glass between his palms idly, cool against his heated skin. When it became clear that Larry wasn’t going to take that for an answer, he ducked his head close to Larry’s, inhaling the faded scent of his cologne. “I’ll tell you at home.”

“Oh, pardon me. I didn’t realize you booked my living room out for the whole week,” Larry said, but there was no bite to it, a dimple appearing in his cheek as he smiled lazily.

Freddy didn’t fancy that he could make the remark he wanted; the others were sitting too close, and he was a little too buzzed to trust himself to talk quietly enough. Instead, he looked down, pointedly, to where Larry’s hand was resting on his leg again, and then looked at Larry’s other hand wrapped loosely around his glass before meeting his eye again. 

Larry laughed, low, in Freddy’s ear. “Jesus Christ, you’re shameless.”

“Hey, White. Stop giving the new kid shit. You psych him out before his first job then you’re responsible for whatever mess he makes.,” Joe barked from across the table, one accusing finger pointed dead at Larry.

“Just making conversation,” Larry smiled, parroting Freddy’s words and holding a hand up, open palmed and nonthreatening. Joe gave him a long look before turning back to Eddie. Freddy ducked his head and laughed, letting his eyes meet Larry’s again before tossing back the rest of his rum.

He was too warm, again, from the alcohol and nerves and the humid heat of the bar. He was struck with the sudden need to be out of there; out of Smokey Pete’s, out of the job, out of law enforcement, he didn’t know. Freddy stood up abruptly, sending his chair rattling back against the linoleum floor. Larry’s hand clasped his forearm almost immediately, the concerned expression back on his face. 

“You okay, kid?”

“Fine. Just- need some air,” Freddy said, pulling his arm away and half-stumbling away from the table. The air outside was cool on his skin, and he leaned back against the brick exterior wall of Smokey Pete’s, hands braced against his knees as he gulped down air like a drowned man. He startled, jerking half-upright, feeling the weight of a hand on his back.

“Just me,” Larry said, voice soft, as he rubbed gentle circles into Freddy's shoulder. “Just breathe, kid. You’re gonna be alright.”

Freddy swallowed, hard, before standing up properly, his face much closer to Larry’s than he had anticipated, Larry’s hand still on his back, resting comfortingly against the nape of his neck. “I’m good, man. I'm good.”

“Of course you are, tough guy like you,” Larry agreed easily, watching Freddy’s face carefully. He waited a beat before starting to guide Freddy down the sidewalk towards where his car was parked, his hand still resting on Freddy’s shoulder.

Freddy tried pulling himself together, sitting in the passenger seat as they drove back to Larry’s in silence. The radio hummed, turned down so low that Freddy could barely make out the words of the late night DJ, but he tried anyway, to give himself something to focus on. An anchor point. Every so often, Larry would look at him, sidelong and his expression unreadable. He waited patiently to speak, staying silent until the apartment door had closed behind them and Freddy was kicking his shoes off.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Nah, nah, man. I’m fine,” Freddy gestured casually, hoping that Larry didn’t notice the fact his hand was shaking. He was under control again, almost, his face schooled into a neutral expression despite the pallid undertone his complexion had gone and the sweat on his forehead that were telling a very different story.

“I wasn’t asking. Something’s wrong, so spit it out,” Larry’s forehead was creased, both unimpressed and concerned as he stepped into Freddy’s space, and Freddy had the urge to smooth the lines out with his fingers. A distraction from the anxiety and panic welling up and choking him. 

“It’s-,” Freddy ran his hands through his hair, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling, and he laughed, just once. It was a bitter, mirthless sound. “Not to give you some bullshit line, but you wouldn’t understand.”

“Then make me understand, kid. You’ve got a way with words when you want to use them,” Larry’s tone is light, a fruitless attempt to break the tension.

Freddy opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. It was probably the alcohol talking- he’d never been particularly skilled at handling his liquor- but it seemed like it would be so easy to tell Larry the truth. That he wasn’t Mr. Orange, Freddy, the new kid on the block, but Officer Newandyke. The part of him that had any sense at all knew that once Larry knew, his chances of survival dropped to just about zero. He knew how Larry felt about the boys in blue, how he’d put a bullet through any cop that got in his way. And Freddy had decidedly gotten in his way. He screwed his eyes shut, knowing that his face had just betrayed the complicated thoughts that were running through his brain.

“It’s the job, isn’t it?” Larry wrapped an arm around Freddy, pulling him close to his chest and letting Freddy rest his head into the juncture where Larry’s neck and shoulder met. “Everyone freaks out on their first job, kid. As long as you don’t get stage fright tomorrow, you’ll be fine. You’ll have me backing you up, and I’ll be damned if I let anything happen to you. You hear me?”

“I’m- it’s not that,” Freddy mumbled, his words half-muffled into the collar of Larry’s shirt, and he could have kicked himself for it. “I know you do. Have my back.”

“What is it, then? You look like you’re gonna combust if you don’t get whatever it is off your chest.”

Freddy hesitated; because this was going to be it, wasn't it? This was going to be the moment when he picked Larry over everything. Over his career, over the law, over everything. Maybe it was always meant to come to this, some cruel twist of fate that had always been out of his hands. This was going to be when he went from being Freddy Newandyke to being a stain on Larry’s otherwise pristine carpet. 

“You can tell me anything,” Larry prompted, like he sensed that Freddy was standing just on the edge of a precipice and all he needed was one more shove. 

“I know. That’s the problem, man.”

“Alright,” Larry said after a long pause, voice making it clear he’d half-hoped that Freddy had planned on elaborating. “I won’t push you. Let’s get you to bed- you’re dead on your feet.”

Larry pressed a kiss to Freddy’s temple, a gesture of affection that he didn’t deserve, and Freddy felt himself crumple, the last of his self-preservation and control dissolving. 

“I’m a cop.”

The world stopped, a long, silent moment stretching between them, still standing in Larry’s entryway. Somehow it felt like not the just room had frozen, but that everything had stopped, the whole earth pausing in its rotation because of little Freddy Newandyke. There was no going back now, there was only dealing with the consequences.

“What?”

“I’m a cop,” Freddy repeated, sounding strangled. He tried to wrestle away, to get enough space so that Larry would at least have to look him in the eye, but Larry’s arms locked around him. Freddy couldn’t get the leverage to break away, struggling desperately against Larry’s arms and chest. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Larry. I’m sorry,” he babbled, still trying to push Larry away. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to be able to move, he slumped forward, a marionette with its strings cut.

“You finished?” Larry’s voice was smooth, even-toned, and somehow that was worse than if it had been angry. “You done?”

“Jesus, man, if you’re going to kill me just do it,” Freddy said, his voice still pitching upwards but now sounding bone tired. He was going to die in the arms of this man, who he was willing to risk everything for, who absolutely hated him from tip to toe. Freddy reached up, catching a handful of the back of Larry’s shirt in his fist. He braced for Larry to pull out the gun he was sure was on him and waited to hear the sound of the safety clicking off. 

It didn’t come.

“Why the hell would I kill you, kid? You’ve not exactly kept it a secret.”

“Wait, what?” Freddy pushed back against Larry’s arm again, and it yielded, letting him get a look at Larry’s face, his own contorted in an expression of confusion. He was vaguely aware that he was shaking, vision half-blurred from unshed tears. “You knew? And you were gonna go ahead with the job anyway? Knowing I was a rat?”

“God, no. Joe didn’t believe me when I implied I thought you were, and I figured I’d give him a bit of time to figure it out on his own. Was gonna let him know in the morning to call the whole thing off,” Larry shrugged, looking awfully nonplussed considering the situation. “Don’t get me wrong; I was pissed as hell. I thought maybe I could give you enough rope to hang yourself, but then I got fucking attached to you, snot nosed kid that you are.”

Freddy inhaled sharply through his nose. Everything felt like it was spinning; the world lurching back into rotation in double time. “How long have you known for?”

“First time I met you,” Larry chuckled, tracing small arcs across the nape of Freddy’s neck, slow and comforting. “They gave you the commode story like they ain’t been handing that one out to guys for the past twenty years. Vice needs to get some new material, you tell your guys that.”

“How the fuck did you-” Freddy started, wrinkles appearing between his eyebrows as he frowned. None of this was going how he had thought it would, his mind racing to keep up.

“Used to be one of you boys in blue.”

Freddy paused, letting himself absorb and process that before pressing on.“You were a crooked cop?”

“Fuck, kid, no. All a guy needs is two brain cells to rub together to know the whole damn system is a crooked piece of shit. Got out of there a long, long time ago. Learned a few tricks and then quit,” Larry scoffed, his turn to frown. 

Freddy felt a sting from that- the implication that he wasn’t smart enough to figure out what was going on, or worse, that he knew and didn’t care. The truth was, he did care and he did know; he’d stupidly thought maybe he could make a difference. One of those bright young optimistic types. The optimism hadn’t lasted long; it had probably meant something that he had jumped at the first chance to get into the vice squad and into undercover work, playing at being anything other than what his day job really was. 

Freddy tipped his head forward, letting his forehead rest against Larry’s shoulder as he sighed. “What am I going to do,” he muttered, just as much to himself as Larry, because of course he had gotten himself into this position. Of course he had engineered a set of circumstances where it felt like there was no winning.

“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re gonna go to your team and tell them you’ve been found out- no, let me finish,” Larry said, cutting himself off when Freddy began to protest. “You’re gonna tell them you’ve been found out, that we’re on to you. They’ll pull you from the job, Joe will put a freeze on everything, and we all just walk away.”

“I can’t, it’s not that simple,” Freddy sighed, still pressed up against Larry. He’d stopped shaking at some point, but he felt weak, like all his joints had gone just a tad loose. “I’m- look man, they’ll have to put me in witness protection, I’ll have to move all my shit; it’ll be such a fuckin hassle. I don’t-“

Freddy sighed again. Because would it really be so bad? He’d have to leave California behind, move his ass god only knew where. Not that he had any real ties; his mother had died years ago and the other officers weren’t exactly the kind of guys he wanted to have over to watch the game and shoot the shit, and he didn’t really have time to meet other people. It could be nice, a fresh start, somewhere new. After a hesitation, he spoke again.

“Yeah. Yeah, alright. I’ll call my guy.”

“It can wait til morning, kid. You call someone in the state that you’re in and they’re gonna send officers over here, and that’s not a situation either of us need,” Larry soothed, and Freddy nodded. He needed time to plan out exactly what he wanted to say, what kind of angle he was going to use. Holdaway and the chief were going to have his ass on a silver platter, either way. Not that it really mattered, if he was going to be jetted halfway across the country in a matter of weeks.

“Let’s get you off to bed,” Larry said, and released his hold on Freddy, and stepping away. He looked as tired as Freddy felt; the conversation had taken more out of him than Freddy had thought, based on how calm he had seemed. Freddy shuffled out his shoes, leaving them in a rag-tag pile on the floor, and followed Larry down the hall to his room. Even though they’d joked about it in Smokey Pete’s, they’d both always known that Freddy wasn’t going to be spending the night on the couch.

* ****

He can’t say he’s going to miss the little apartment that the precinct had set up for him; it was hot and stuffy and could never seem to catch a cross-breeze no matter how Freddy had adjusted the windows. Sure, it had been conveniently located for the job, but that had been the only positive thing about it. ****

He taped up yet another box of kitchenware, pausing to listen to the radio like he’d been doing all morning. He knew logically that the job had been called off; Joe Cabot was a lot of things but he wasn’t stupid, but it didn’t stop him from keeping an ear out for news of the heist. It had been smooth sailing all day though, just pop music and disc jockeys cracking flat jokes. Part of Freddy knew, too, that he was just desperately hoping for some news of Larry. Absolutely anything at all, but all he was catching was the half-hourly traffic report. ****

In the other room he could hear officers packing up the items that had belonged to him for the last three weeks; lamps and tables and books, items really owned by the state. There was a metaphor or an allegory in there that he didn’t want to think too hard on. He sighed, setting the tape-dispenser down on the stained laminate counter top. Freddy was 95% sure that he’d put on clean-up duty as punishment for fucking up the case, and he also knew that everyone would swear that of course that wasn’t the case. Holdaway and the chief had both been furious with him; raking him over the coals. He couldn’t really bring himself to care about it; and wasn’t that just another sign he needed to leave and find himself some other kind of job. ****

The two other officers assigned to packing up the ratty little apartment walked out of what had been Freddy’s bedroom, each carrying boxes taped within an inch of their lives. They made their way down to the truck waiting on the road, heels clicking loudly on the stairs. For a moment, Freddy was alone in the mostly empty apartment and he looked around to try to remember the moment; the end of a period in his life he wasn’t going to be sorry to see go. The silence hung in the air, broken only by soft sounds from the street below, and Freddy thought for a moment that he was imagining the sound of the phone ringing, wishful thinking or something. When he realized that he wasn’t, he scrambled towards the phone and half-tripped over a box before he managed to pick it up, catching himself against the wall. ****

“Hello?"

“Hey, kid,” Larry’s familiar voice came down the line, sounding calm and cool and everything that Freddy had desperately wanted to be. “Want to go get a taco?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everything i know about witness protection I learned from Mary Kate & Ashley's hit 2000 film _Our Lips Our Sealed_
> 
> Emgays did, in fact, have the meat that crafted the twist for this (and therefore the plot of the damn thing) so blow a kiss at them if you like where this ends up. See y'all in a few days for the epilogue.


	4. So very fine, so happy together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait another day but Emgays wanted this put out today and I am but a pawn to their whims and desires so here's the epilogue!!!

Freddy stretched out, luxuriating in the bright morning light that fell across the bed, not unlike a cat sunning itself. He could hear Larry clattering around in the kitchen and the sound of the coffeemaker running, the radio playing softly underneath all of it.

‘You planning on getting up anytime this month?” Larry asked, voice pitched just loud enough to carry through the open doorway. The toaster dinged, and there was the familiar rattle of a drawer opening.

“I’m thinking about it; I’ll let you know in two to three business days,” Freddy called back, rolling lazily onto his back and wiggling himself into the nest of blankets. He heard Larry’s answering laugh and smiled to himself, pleased. 

On the other side of the windowpane the ground was slick with ice and snow, big fat flakes piling up on the roads and causing havoc to early risers. If Larry had his way, they would both have already been out in it, running errands and trekking all over town, Larry laughing at Freddy when he scowled for having his fingers turn blue in the icy mid-west air. He still wasn’t used to the temperatures after a lifetime spent in Los Angeles, even though they hadn’t set foot in California in almost two years.

“You got five minutes before I’m bringing this mug of coffee in there and dumping it on you, snot nosed brat,” Larry warned, his voice fond rather than threatening. They both knew that Freddy would eventually come padding out, one of Larry’s sweaters hanging half-off of his shoulders with his hair a mess of bedhead, and then they would properly start the day. Freddy had a shift downtown in a little hole in the wall comic book shop, and Larry would be off doing…. Whatever it was he got up to. Freddy didn’t ask too many questions, just raised his eyebrows silently when their bank account balance shifted wildly upwards.

“Is that so?” Freddy smirked, his voice a challenge as he settled even further into the blankets, the wind wailing as snow continued to fall down outside the walls of their cozy little apartment. “Try me, old man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for coming on this ride with me; I had an absolute BLAST writing this fic and I hope you all had a blast reading it! The ending might be a little cheesy but it's what they deserved - you hear me, Qtip? They deserved better.


End file.
